


By Order of the Phoenix

by Rare Night Boy (ponchard)



Category: Dimension 20, Dimension 20 (Web Series), Dimension 20: Fantasy High, Fantasy High, Fantasy High Live, Fantasy High Live: Sophomore Year
Genre: (as far as we know by S2E6), (sort of... and not in the direction you think), Arthur Aguefort’s book is in the Restricted Section for a very good reason y’all, Body Horror, Body Modification, Canon Compliant, Cloaca, Crack, Dear Penthouse, Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Fire, Humiliation, Magic, Other, Pain, Painful Sex, Painplay, Power Imbalance, Temperature Play, The Most Unreliable Narrator, Unreliable Narrator, Wizards, chronomancy, every day we stray further from Helio’s light, offputting nicknames for “penis”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21572287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponchard/pseuds/Rare%20Night%20Boy
Summary: An excerpt fromAbracadabra, Look At Me Now: My Life in Magic, by Arthur Aguefort, in which Arthur fucks a phoenix.Fair warning, I’ve decided that Aguefort, besides being a birdfucker (WHICH IS CANON) is exactly the kind of menace who would use weird, offputting euphemisms for his genitals. Any time the story threatens to get even slightly sexy, you’ll be slapped in the face with a “wingwang” or “dongus”.Ok, on to the more serious warnings:this fic contains painplay, body horror, and dubious consent. To be clear on that last point,Arthur’sconsent is dubious. He’s into what’s happening, but he doesn’t verbalize it. The phoenix is monitoring him with a Detect Thoughts the whole time, but Arthur doesn’t explicitly explain that in the text. He’s had so much freaky wizard sex that he takes that step for granted.The phoenix can and does talk, so the birdfucking aspect is fine. It’s fine. It’s completely fine.haha jk jk this fic is extremely cursed
Relationships: Arthur Aguefort/Ayda Aguefort’s Mom, Arthur Aguefort/Ayda’s Mom, Arthur Aguefort/CHRONOMANCY, Arthur Aguefort/Phoenix, Arthur Aguefort/The Last Phoenix, Cloacamancy, Eggfort
Comments: 18
Kudos: 20





	By Order of the Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> 2019/12/06 - Updated some of the tags to account for new information from Ayda Aguefort. The story remains as cursed as before.

Ah, phoenixes. Those blazing birds who shake their claws at the gods. Those sleek-feathered tricksters who lure death itself into an alleyway and set it on fire. Is there any creature more bewitching in the whole of Spyre?

Probably yes, but phoenix eggs are rad as hell. So that really helps them out. 

I met the last phoenix, as any good adventurer would, when she gave me a quest. She was engaged in a kerfuffle with the skeleton duchess, and needed someone to bribe, threaten, and/or murder the appropriate officials. At the time, I’d developed quite a reputation for all of those things, and a local barkeep (who I would earlier learn was a past version of my future self) gave her my information. 

This turned out well for her, as I had the magic of **chronomancy** at my disposal. That most powerful school of magic, **chronomancy** , allowed me to retroactively forge all her paperwork with none the wiser. Even you, yes you, readers from the duchess’ court, are quite welcome to review her documents. They are all in order and always have been. You can prove nothing, suuuuckers!

After I had handily dispatched her problem, she continued contacting me for a variety of challenging quests. I say “challenging”. They were of course no match for a high level **chronomancer** such as myself. But it is always important to find the challenge hidden within easy tasks. Therein lies experience, the primary way by which we learn cool, overpowered shit. 

Besides this, an arduous quest can be converted into admiration, which can sometimes be converted into sex. In the case of phoenixes, sex can further be converted into valuable eggs. A messy process, though much less messy than bursting into flames. It is with this worthy goal in mind that I set out to woo my phoenix paramour. 

Perhaps a bard would sing a song. Perhaps recite a poem. Perhaps charm their love with tales of distant lands. All old hat for phoenixes, the cougars of the animal world. Happily, I am no bard. No bard would be able to inhabit infinite thrusting timeclones of himself, high-fiving over the quivering body of his avian lover. Indeed, that is exactly what I proposed to my questgiver. 

“Is that all you can do?” she asked, dragging a powerful talon along my adventuring shoes. Her claw came to rest on the lacing, so heavy that I could feel my adventuring foot bruising underneath. At this point, my adventuring dingaling chose to enter the fray. Having just returned from a long excursion polymorphed as an amoeba, I was, as they say, rather pent up. 

I intended to handle this as I always do — by stopping time, stripping down to my skivvies, and resetting the clock, as it were. A **chronomancer** need never embarrass himself. But this time, the phoenix’s marble eyes swirled orange, and my spell burned in my hands. 

“Try again.”

After my spell turned to ash, the heat remained. Spectral flames began to lace up my arms, blackening my suit sleeves. They felt half-hallucinatory, as if I might blink and realize I’d been imagining the sensation. The phoenix seemed to grow larger and larger, filling my entire field of vision. I reached out to her beak, reeling my arm out for what felt like miles. On contact, a chill spiked through my fingertips, followed by numbness. 

She dipped her head a little, letting me run my leaden hand through her crown feathers. I brought up my other hand too, taking another blast of searing ice, then nothingness. I had the fleeting idea that I was destroying my hands, that I might never be able to cast spells again. Unable to make a living for myself, existing only at the pleasure of this immortal bird. At that thought, my little wizard nearly performed some **chronomancy** of its own. It was all I could do to yank myself back from the edge. I dropped my hands and shut my eyes, panting. 

“Still with me?” When I opened my eyes, I could see firelight dancing in hers. She brushed a wingtip down my cheek, singeing off half my beard. “Don’t get too excited yet. _Those_ injuries can be healed.”

With a blast of hot air, she flapped up to perch on my waistband, wings behind her, golden claws scratching down my belly. In another wingbeat, they streaked down my legs, shredding my trousers and throwing me off balance. I landed hard on my back. She flapped down after me and settled on my pelvis, ripping away the remaining cloth with her beak. As she threw the last scrap away, she tilted her head back and shrieked at the sky, triumphant. 

_But this one can’t._

And she began to work herself down onto my tallywhacker. 

Now, phoenixes aren’t shaped the same way as humanoids, outside or in. Neither gods nor nature saw fit to make my shape compatible with hers. But what is magic (or indeed fucking) but the means by which we moon the gods and run, cackling and pantsless, into the mist? Surely no magic I would take for myself.

This _particular_ magic created a sensation much like that of a very large, very erect tube of dough being squeezed through a quite narrow, scalding hot pasta machine. One of those spiral-shaped pastas, perhaps rotini. The phoenix descended inch by inch onto my shaking hips, the bruising vice of her cloaca swizzling my pizzle into a form that would fit only this, forever. Beyond the reach of wish, beyond divinity. 

By the time she seated herself with one last exquisite jerk, my whole body was glossy with steaming sweat. She rippled, once, and I felt myself arch, each pulse of my ruined winky-porky crushed against unyielding walls and edges. I have never felt such profound agony before or since. I think I fell into a delirium there in her nest. Or maybe I flew. The last thing I heard before I went was her squawking laughter, pealing out like a jay.

So anyway, we’re fuckbuddies now.

**Author's Note:**

> If this fic has ruined pasta, wizards, sex, campfires, birdwatching, or life itself for you, please share it out to more doomed souls. We shall all descend into Hell and meet Bill Seacaster together.


End file.
